


Contact

by RhineGold



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, overly overtly nothing else but implied rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29800128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhineGold/pseuds/RhineGold
Summary: He's never quite sure when it began.Things had been going well for them, for the first time in months. There is food, and power, and components harvested from the other Destiny. There are no hostile aliens - no aliens at all. This stretch of space is calm and quiet and utterly boring.But something is wrong with Rush.
Relationships: Nicholas Rush/Everett Young
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	Contact

He's never quite sure when it began. 

Things had been going well for them, for the first time in months. There is food, and power, and components harvested from the other Destiny. There are no hostile aliens - no aliens at all. This stretch of space is calm and quiet and utterly boring. 

But something is wrong with Rush. 

Always private, the man becomes reclusive, completely vanishing for hours, days at a time. Becker claims he comes after hours for food, but there is never much left by then to give away. TJ has not seen him, nor has Camille or Eli. He seems to avoid everyone, Young in particular. 

Finally, after nearly two weeks of hiding, Rush is actually visible, working on his usual station on the bridge. Brody and Park are nearby, conversing quietly and completely ignoring the man. Young stops, surprised to see Rush at last, and he forgets what it was he planned to ask Brody in the first place. 

As he clears his throat, all three scientists look up, and Rush scowls. Before he can even greet them, the smaller man is pushing away from the console, stalking out the door. Having had just about enough of this, Young spins on his heel and follows him out. 

Rush's stride eats up ground, forcing Young to practically jog to keep up with him. He calls the man's name, but he is ignored. Finally, he catches him by the arm, spinning him around with more force than is necessary, sending Rush staggering into the wall. They freeze for a moment, the sudden escalation to violence so simple, so easy, and so common between them. 

He waits for Rush's sneer, Rush's snarl, or Rush's infamous Glasgow Kiss, but instead, the smaller man cringes away from him. Startled by the sudden wash of guilt in his chest, Young releases him instantly. There is a painfully intense moment where the other man's dark eyes seem to bore into his, and then Rush is gone. 

He runs like a ghost, feet barely making a sound on the metal plating. But for a ghost, it seems that he himself is the one who is haunted. 

~*~

That night, Young dreams of Rush. 

He has dreamt of Rush before, mostly in the weeks following their fight on that alien planet, when he thought himself a murderer and struggled to fit into that new skin. He can feel again the heat of that sun, taste the dust. He can feel the rattle in his teeth as their heads connect, and that last, soft puff of air as Rush rolls back from him in his too-rapid collapse into unconsciousness. 

His face stings with the memory of the rock biting into it, and he can feel Rush's wrists trembling under his palms. 

But this part is wrong, he realizes. He never held Rush by his wrists, not there, and not later on the Ursini ship. He has never studied the man's hands, never felt that rabbit's pulse under the callouses of his own fingertips. 

But he knows them. He knows them intimately and confidently and his imagination has never been the best, but by God, he can taste the tang of his skin and he knows he has never, never touched Rush with his tongue. 

He can feel the pulse in his throat now as Rush twists his face away. Hair slakes across those sharp features and he follows the movement with his tongue, rough stubble as close to a coffee burn as he is going to get out here. 

Rush tastes like coffee, bitter and sharp and utterly, utterly warm. Parts of Young are more awake than he has felt in years and he wants to bury himself in the man's skin. He wakes up in a tangle of sheets, a wordless groan on his lips. The bed is wet for the first time in months, possibly years, and he has never been more ashamed. 

~*~

It must show on his face. 

Young cannot think of another reason why Rush would blow out of the room whenever he enters, why he would go out of his way to avoid places he knows Young might be. 

When he finally calls a meeting to discuss the repairs and allotment of materials scavenged from the other ship, it is partially just to see if Rush will attend. 

He does. Practically attached at the hip to Brody, Rush refuses to meet his gaze during the meeting. He stares at his notepad, the stub of his pencil pinched between his fingers, a million miles away. When Young addresses him by name, he jumps, and then scowls. Brody answers for him, and Eli jumps in to defuse the sudden tension. Rush never relaxes, hands fisted in his lap. 

Young cannot help but stare at those hands. Long and thin and overly large considering the rest of the man's build. His own fingers twitch as he recalls the hammer of Rush's pulse, a spectral contact that never really happened, that nevertheless continues to haunt his dreams. Rush looks up, as though sensing his scrutiny. He draws his brows together in an expression that is probably meant to be quizzical, but instead looks apprehensive. 

One of the first things he'd ever noticed about Rush, eons and lightyears ago on Icarus, was the way the man looked at everyone around him as they spoke - head cocked upwards, eyes wide, expression wary. Here was a man who seemed as though he was always expecting to be hit. Young knew that kind of face well - he'd worn it himself as a child. 

He wondered what kind of child Rush must have been, dirt poor and mad brilliant and it occurs to him for the first time that an ego the size of the sun does not come easily to one so disadvantaged by size and circumstance. Rush swallows hard, the working of his throat muscles dragging Young painfully back into the present. He shifts his hips despite himself and regrets his desire to see Rush today. He regrets his desire, more than most other things in his life.

~*~

That night, he dreams of Rush's tears on his palm and his fingers in the other man's mouth. He drinks the rest of the night away, not even bothering to change the sheets. 

~*~

He finds Rush on the observation deck the following night, long after everyone else has gone to bed. 

"Couldn't sleep?" He calls softly, his throat working around the words as he sees how Rush jumps. The man's startlement is as painful as it is arousing. 

With a shake of his head, Rush tries to skirt past him, but Young can't bear to let him escape yet again. His fingers are closing around the meat of Rush's arm before he can stop himself. It is Rush who stops, short and tense, eyes nearly black in the dim light. 

"Colonel Young...?" He drawls, but it sounds hesitant, careful. 

"What went wrong with us, Rush?" He asks, unsure where these words are even coming from. 

His lips quirk up at the corners at that, a bitterly amused expression. "You really have to ask?"

"Once upon a time, you and I could work together - could be in the same damn room together. And now that's all gone. We reached an understanding once, and now that's gone too. What happened here, Rush? What happened to you and me?"

"There was never a 'you and me,'" Rush snaps, jerking his arm away. Young is not imagining the tremor in his voice or the hunch in his shoulders, but he lets him go without protest. He is unwilling to examine the way his body clenches when Rush shies away and unable to handle that kind of sadness tonight.

~*~

Young doesn't know what about that late-night conversation triggered it, but when sleep finds him again, he finally understands everything.

~*~

_Rush is sleeping when you enter the room._

_He sleeps on top of the covers, one arm curled up to his chest, hand hooked loosely over a shoulder. Fully clothed, hair in his face, one boot forgotten beside his slightly spread legs._

_You clamp your hand over his mouth, dropping your weight onto the bed beside him, behind him, against him. The dip in the mattress rolls Rush into you and the man explodes into frenetic but sleep-sluggish movement. You keep your fist curled over Rush's mouth, feeling tongue and teeth and saliva as he snarls. Your other hand slams over his chest, pressing Rush's bent arm up towards his own neck. The threat of strangulation doesn't seem to cow him, though, and he bites at the palm over his mouth with surprising force._

_Rush flips suddenly, a thrash that twists his whole body, so that you are lying side-by-side. He pants openly, eyes wide and dark in the darkness. He does not scream or call for help. He merely lies there, staring. "Colonel Young?" He murmurs, more an exhalation of air than a question._

_You shake your head slightly and those eyes narrow. "What the hell are you doing?" He demands, voice hardening._

_"Tell me why you did it," You demand, seizing him by his loose collar._

_"You'll have to be a bit more specific," He chuckles darkly, "I do a lot of things, after all."_

_It doesn't take you much effort to slap the mirth off his fucking face._

~*~


End file.
